


do i make you cringe

by crookedheart (nighimpossible)



Series: the kids aren't alright [1]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguous Relationships, Anxiety, Coming Out, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/crookedheart
Summary: Tommy has a mental list of things and people that make him feel like a human being and not a giant ball of tangled nerves. The list is not long, and it includes: dogs, running, debate, when Lovett cleans his side of the room, and the way Jon is looking at him right now.





	do i make you cringe

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of what's going to be a series of shorter fics set in a prep school AU 'verse. It'll feature basically every pairing eventually.
> 
> As usual, be cool, don't share this where it shouldn't be shared, etc. etc.
> 
> Title from Matt Maeson's song, "Cringe."

 

 

 

Tommy’s doing extra laps, not because he deserves it, but because he needs to blow off some steam before heading back to his dorm. Lovett has left their room a fucking mess this week, so Tommy had started off the day by tripping over a pair of underwear that very much did not belong to him and falling head-first into his dresser. On top of that, Tommy's personal statement remains shitty and it’s due in less than a month to the college counselor’s office. Despite the fact that Tommy’s never been a great writer, he’s somehow supposed to come up with some life-changing essay to woo the hearts and minds of admissions officers across the nation. It doesn’t help matters that Lovett has already completed _his_ personal statement over the summer—and it’s really good, Tommy’s read the damn thing—it just sort of rubs salt in the wound.

 

Usually extra laps are reserved for people who fuck around during lacrosse practice, but Tommy’s always been good about listening to Coach and keeping his head down. Jon, on the other hand, is _absolutely_ doing laps because he deserves it. Jon was unplugged through like, the _entire_ practice, and Coach Axelrod ended up chewing him out for being such a space cadet. But when Axe sends Jon to finish practice with laps as punishment, Tommy drops his stick in the grass and follows suit.

 

“Was I talking to you?” Axe asks Tommy, like his skull is thick or something like it.

 

“No, sir,” Tommy says with a shake of his head. He falls into pace next to Jon regardless. If Jon shoots him a grateful look, Tommy doesn’t see it: instead, he keeps his head forward and his eyes on the track. “Just trying to get into shape.”

 

Axe has always expected a lot from Jon, and if anyone else had let things slide today, he might have been more merciful. But it being the first practice of the season, and with Jon as captain of the lacrosse team, the situation has enough baggage to warrant a real slap on the wrist. Axe scowls at Tommy while Jon breathes heavily in his ear. “Suit yourself. But you better not be dragging your ass around on Friday,” he calls out as Tommy and Jon jog past him on the rust-colored track that encircles the lacrosse field.

 

Tommy has never minded running. He’s built for it, long and lean like he is; he even ran a few seasons of cross country before transitioning to lacrosse. The endorphins don’t suck, but ultimately, the best part about running is how afterwards, by the time he showers and gets into bed, his brain actually wants to turn off—which is a damn feat unto itself.

 

He doesn’t know what the word for it is—worrying all the time about things he can’t control—but Lovett has decided that Tommy has some kind of generalized anxiety, and maybe that’s not wrong. Not that Tommy would ever admit that to Lovett. He’d never hear the end of it. There’s no need to stroke that particular ego.

 

Jon, on the other hand, clearly ran out of steam a half hour ago. Tommy slows his pace to accommodate as Jon's feet start to drag. “Shit,” Jon heaves, and he glances over at Axe, who is still putting equipment away. “When the fuck is he going to leave?”

 

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Tommy says, laying it on thick in commiseration, slowing further as their jog becomes a near power walk. “He wants to see you legitimately pass out on the track.”

 

“Well, his wish is about to be my command,” Jon says darkly, and Tommy breaths out a few quiet laugh to the beat of their run. “Tommy, I’m gonna die out here.”

 

“Just a few more minutes,” Tommy encourages, keeping an eye on Axe as he starts to walk off the field. He starts running backwards, looking back towards Jon and waving him on encouragingly. “Then you can collapse in a heap.”

 

“Fuck off,” Jon huffs out, gesturing at Tommy. Sweat is dripping down his face, consolidating in a wet pool at the neck of his pinnie. When he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, Tommy nearly loses his balance. “Watch where you’re going,” Jon points out, and Tommy turns forward again.

 

Jon _does_ literally collapse on the track once Axe is out of sight. “That man’s trying to kill me,” Jon sighs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “First practice of the semester? What a dick.” Tommy takes a seat next to him on the ground. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he adds, turning his head and looking up at Tommy.

 

“Didn’t mind,” Tommy shrugs. “I was probably gonna run after practice anyways.”

 

“You’re a fucking monster,” Jon groans, rolling back to look up at the rose colored sky above them. “I don’t know where you get all that energy.”

 

Tommy tilts his head up, closes his eyes, and takes in the last few rays of sun the sky has to offer. If there was one thing he missed about school over the summer holidays, it was the sprawling acres of its campus. Bought back in like, the 1800s, the Washington Preparatory School for the Gifted has a campus that rivals any average small liberal arts college, except where the age gamut runs from fourteen through eighteen. The words of their principle echo through Tommy’s head: _four years at Washington Prep will prepare you for anything_. God, Tommy hopes so.

 

“Running helps me be less...nervous,” Tommy explains quietly. He runs a hand through his sweaty, blond hair. He knows he’s weird, knows that it’s not normal to be how he is so young. Tommy doesn’t talk about this shit with everyone, though. Just the guys he trusts. “I know. It doesn’t really work. I’ve been told,” he adds darkly. Lovett makes that much clear.

 

Tommy feels Jon touch his knee with a few knuckles. “Did your roomie say something?” he asks Tommy, and Tommy opens his eyes and just stares at where Jon is touching his leg.

 

“What doesn’t Lovett say?” Tommy tries to joke. Jon takes his hand away and bends his knees, feet now flat against the pavement.

 

“Hey, we’re seniors applying to college,” Jon tries. “We’re supposed to be nervous.”

 

And Tommy wants to agree, but it’s not just that. Sure, the impending doom of the college application process is a slog and Tommy hates Collegeboard already with the fire of a thousand suns, but he’s always been this way. It didn’t just _start_ with Tommy. He always was. 

 

He turns it back on Jon, because he’d rather not admit to that. “I don’t know why _you’re_ nervous. You probably already have your personal statement done.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Tommy groans. “Of course you do. And, hey—valedictorians usually get an Ivy, yeah?”

 

“Shut up,” Jon groans, covering his face with his hands.

 

“It’s _true_ ,” Tommy cajoles. Man, it’s so much easier teasing Jon about college shit than thinking about his own prospects. “Dan turned down Cornell for Georgetown last year.”

 

“There are no guarantees,” Jon says quietly, tilting his head and wincing in the process. “Shit, Tommy, can you lie the fuck down? My neck really hurts looking up at you.”

 

So Tommy lies down. The pavement beneath his back is hot, the heat from the sun still permeating the asphalt. The rest of the team has gone to the mess hall for dinner, leaving Tommy and Jon alone in the near dusk of early autumn. It’s easy like this: Tommy would rather live in this sweaty, quiet moment for a while than return to real life any time soon.

 

“Where _was_ your head at today?” Tommy finally asks. Jon had dropped almost every pass Tommy had hurled at him during practice. It’s not like him at all—Jon has a soft touch on the lacrosse ball most days of the week. Tommy’s spent an embarrassing amount of time focused on those hands, trying to figure out the coordinated grasps and spins of the lacrosse stick. 

 

“On the fucking moon, according to Axe,” Jon says darkly. “I don’t know. Thinking about some stuff, I guess.”

 

Jon is so obviously vague that Tommy rolls his eyes. The guy clearly wants to talk about something important, but Tommy’s going to have to probe. And that’s fine—Tommy’s good enough at reading people that he can put two and two together. 

 

“You still going with Pamela?” Tommy asks carefully, remembering the older girlfriend Jon had run after nearly all last year. Might as well start there. “Where is she now?”

 

“She’s at Tufts,” Jon says, his tone a little wistful. “And no, we broke up over the summer.” Jon adds bitterly, “Don’t you know? It’s not cool to date down.”

 

“Date down?” Tommy hisses in sympathy. “That’s rough.”

 

Jon makes a noncommittal noise in return. “Whatever. I mean, it fucking sucked, but whatever.”

 

The sun begins to set around them, and Jon sits up. “Lovett wants me to run for President.”

 

“Of the SGA?” Tommy asks. The Student Government Association is a big deal at school. Tommy served as a junior representative last year and anticipates running for a senior position in a few weeks time. According to his dad, it looks good on his resume, and Tommy had actually enjoyed debating other people in session. Jon had been involved off and on as a delegate, but took last year off to focus on lacrosse and _poetry_ contests, of all things. Tommy would make more fun of that if Jon hadn’t won a fucking Gold Key in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards last year.

 

Another thing to put on Jon’s resume. Like he needs another thing.

 

“No, of the United States,” Jon jokes. “Yes, of course, the SGA.” He makes a face. “I think Lovett wants to run my campaign.”

 

“Are you even allowed to campaign for that sort of thing?” Tommy asks, sitting up as well.

 

“You know, I don’t know,” Jon says. “But I _do_ know that Lovett wants to make buttons with my face on them. Which is, frankly, horrifying. I think he’s brainstorming slogans back in the dorm. Don’t be surprised if he tries to bounce some off of you when you get back.”

 

Tommy looks at Jon. It’s not like, the most terrible idea Lovett’s ever had. “I think you’d make a great president,” he says simply. And Tommy’s not just saying that to make his friend feel good about his chances. He says it because it’s the truth. Jon is the captain of the lacrosse team and Valedictorian of their graduating class. He's also well-liked by basically everyone: he can bro out with the guys in ways that Tommy can’t, and as far as the girls go, well, he’s a genetically gifted guy who learned how to properly lift over the summer. 

 

Yeah, yeah. Life isn't fair. 

 

Jon has a strange look on his face that Tommy cannot parse. “It might be a bad idea,” he says quietly.

 

Tommy purses his lips. This conversation feels like it’s leading to a certain place, a place where Tommy is begging Jon to run for president, and Tommy doesn’t have time for that kind of self-pitying garbage. Either Jon will run or he won’t run. Tommy’s not going to get on his knees for him. 

 

But Tommy's not one to disregard a good idea when he hears one. “Why? Other than Lovett being your campaign manager, because of _course_ that’s a terrible idea.”

 

Jon has his fingers all tangled together, and he’s picking at one of his nail beds with a quiet tenacity that makes Tommy frown. There’s something Jon isn’t saying, but Tommy can wait this out. Whatever it is, it seems very secret—but Tommy’s an excellent secret keeper. It’s one of his best qualities.

 

“I’m your friend, no matter what,” Tommy reminds Jon. It seems like a good a time as any to say that.

 

“Best friend,” Jon adds, and Tommy beams under the added superlative. He unlaces his long fingers and looks to Tommy, who is patient as he can be with his heart beating somewhere in between his ears. Jon isn’t the kind of guy who has a lot of secrets. “Do you think this school could ever elect someone president who was,” and his voice gets quieter, “I don’t know. Wasn’t straight, I guess?”

 

Tommy had made contingency plans for about five different scenarios, and this revelation was none of them. “What?” Tommy asks smartly, and Jon flushes a deep, furious red.

 

“Yeah, forget it,” Jon says tightly, scurrying to his feet and marching off towards the woods at the edge of the pitch. “Fuck you, Tommy.”

 

“Jon,” Tommy calls out, “campus is that way!” He points in the opposite direction, but Jon just flips him off. Anger bubbles in his chest and he lets out a frustrated, “Yeah, fuck you, too, Jon!”

 

He watches Jon walk away for about half a minute before guilt scratches at him, making his throat feel tight and the corners of his eyes burn. Definitely not the best way Tommy could have handled that. He stands up quickly and jogs after Jon towards the woods. “Dude, come on,” Tommy calls out. “Slow down.”

 

It’s not like Tommy has a lot of experience dealing with people coming out to him. Lovett had walked into freshman year on day one and pronounced himself as “very gay, thank you for asking, pass the ketchup.” A rather perturbed Tommy had quietly wondered what about his silent, bewildered face had spawned that particular admission, but regardless, he soon found that being friends with Lovett was just about the best thing in the world.

 

“No, no,” Jon calls out, “I’m going to go live in the woods now. I’m embracing the hermit lifestyle. Go away.”

 

Tommy does not go away. Instead, he follows Jon until they are surrounded by trees and Jon has come to a complete stop.

 

“I’m not gay,” Jon says, whipping around to glare at Tommy. His eyes are slightly red.

 

Tommy crosses his arms across his chest. “Okay.”

 

“I liked Pamela,” Jon adds. “A lot. That wasn’t—I wasn’t _lying_.”

 

“I know,” Tommy nods.

 

The hushed sounds of the woods around them are punctuated by the chirping of crickets, but not much else. It’s a little like they are both trapped in this bubble of nature, where things said or not said remain contained. Tommy didn’t exactly expect to be dealing with some kind of breakdown in the woods tonight, but here he is. Here they both are, really. But Tommy’s weirdly good in a crisis. When he’d found Lovett trapped in a locker last year, Tommy had then gone on a furiously thorough witch hunt, searching systematically through the students of Washington Prep when Lovett kept quiet about the perpetrator. “It’s over, Tommy, let it go,” Lovett begged him, but Tommy doesn’t let shit like that go, not when it happens to his roommate, not when it happens to anyone. Eventually Tommy figured it out. Subsequently, he beat the shit out of the dude, and ended up with month’s worth of detention for his trouble. Afterwards, Lovett had called him an idiot, but fondly, which is what really mattered.

 

“Shit,” Jon says quietly, and Tommy is brought back into the moment. He can hear the sob in Jon’s throat, just waiting to come out.

 

Tommy’s never wanted to see Jon cry. Sure, he’s considered some fairly inappropriate things about Jon for a while, but when you look like Jon Favreau, you’re going to inspire a lot of inappropriate crushes. Tommy had just figured that’s what it would be: a crush. Innocuous. Innocent. And very secret.

 

“I kissed Dan before he left for DC,” Jon whispers, his voice barely audible above the noise of the woods around them.

 

Tommy makes a face. “That’s like kissing your dad. _Gross._ ”

 

Jon drags his fingers down his face and Tommy laughs. “I know! I know. It was awful.” He lets out a quiet groan. “But not, like, _awful_ awful?”

 

“Wrong person, right—” Tommy starts, and then gestures at his own dick. Oh my _God?_ He’s going to die from pure embarrassment. “Right junk, I mean.” Please, God, strike him down right here and leave a Tommy Vietor shaped hole in the world.

 

But Jon laughs too, and that’s something. “Yeah. Guess so.”

 

“Was Dan weird about it?” Tommy asks.

 

“Not about the kiss,” Jon says delicately, clearly talking around a very awkward memory. “No, it only got weird when I straight up cried into his jeans for the next half-hour. I’ve been in a kinda weird place lately?” The self-deprecation in his voice is palpable.

 

“I don’t know why that would make it weird,” Tommy jokes, and he gets another laugh for his trouble. It warms him a little, even with the sun so far down beyond the horizon.

 

“Boys and girls,” Jon clarifies. “I really did like Pamela.”

 

“I believe you,” Tommy says simply. “But you know you don’t have to prove anything to me.” The expression on Jon’s face crumples, and Tommy’s chest aches.

 

“Yeah?” Jon asks, voice tight in his throat.

 

“Of course.” Tommy looks at Jon, who is clutching at his own arms for support. “Come here,” Tommy adds quietly. He reaches out for Jon, who walks into his arms in quiet submission. He turns his face into Tommy’s neck and takes a few shuddering breaths there as the woods hum around them. “Get this through your skull, dude: you’re not getting rid of me so easy. Best friends, right?” He thinks about adding something else, but his tongue gets twisted against his teeth and he decides that that is enough.

 

“You have shitty taste in friends,” Jon finally says with a quiet laugh.

 

It’s a lie that Tommy will allow. He has excellent taste in people—always has. Tommy will, however, let Jon wallow in this moment. He’s not cruel.

 

Instead, Tommy purses his lips. “I think we figured that out when I volunteered to room with Lovett.”

 

Jon takes a few shuddering breaths into the crook of Tommy’s neck, tickling the baby hairs where Jon’s exhalations meet Tommy’s skin. “Okay, alright,” Jon says more to himself than to Tommy, and he disentangles himself from their embrace. Tommy would have held him longer, but he lets Jon go easily enough. He looks down at the leaf covered ground between their feet.

 

“If I’d known you’d be so cool about it, I would have kissed you instead of Dan,” Jon blurts out, and Tommy feels his head jerk up reflexively.

 

He’s staring at Jon, and Jon is staring back like he knows things about Tommy, _real_ things, things that Tommy doesn’t like to talk about. And maybe he’s known for a while. Maybe that’s why they’re here together in the woods and it’s not like, Rhodes, or Cory, or some other member of Jon’s inner circle. No: it’s Tommy, and it’s Tommy for a reason. It has to be.

 

"Jesus," Tommy murmurs quietly. "You can't just say things like that."

 

"I can't?" Jon asks innocently. He takes a brave step forwards, but Tommy notes that his hands are shaking.

 

A sudden, intense desire stirs in Tommy’s gut. It’s a feeling that, at Tommy’s baseline, is at a slow, constant pulse in his veins throughout most of the day. It’s no joke when they say that teenage boys are horny constantly. Tommy’s already jerked off twice today.

 

Tommy just can’t help himself when he takes a step forward towards Jon. For his part, Jon quirks his head up at Tommy, who has a couple inches on him. “I think you like the idea,” he says slowly, a smile emerging on his lips like the sun dawning.

 

“I won't pretend to know what you're talking about,” Tommy says as primly as possible, but he draws closer regardless. Wherever Tommy's going, it's towards Jon, and quickly.

 

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Jon says while beaming up at Tommy like some kind of crazy person. “Has Lovett been broadening your horizons now that you’re rooming together?”

 

“Let’s not talk about Lovett,” Tommy says a little roughly before grabbing a handful of the pinnie that hangs off of Jon’s frame and reeling him in.

 

Tommy gets that it’s not exactly _buddies_ to kiss your best friend on the lips, repeatedly, in the secluded woods at the edge of campus, but maybe he doesn’t want to be just _buddies_ with Jon Favreau. This feels good, even though they both smell like teenage boy and desperately need showers, even though Tommy is pretty sure this is a kiss of gratitude more than anything else. It makes Tommy feel good, and not a lot of things make Tommy feel good these days.

 

Tommy has a mental list of things and people that make him feel like a human being and not a giant ball of tangled nerves. The list is not long, and it includes: dogs, running, debate, when Lovett cleans his side of the room, and the way Jon is looking at him right now.

 

“Yeah,” Jon huffs against Tommy’s lips. “Let’s not talk.”

 

Jon is sweat slick from practice, so when Tommy runs a hand under the elastic band of his shorts, his fingers slip a little further than he’d angled for. The hairs at his dick brush against Tommy’s hand and Jon hisses in approval, his hips falling into a slow roll against Tommy’s hand. It is suddenly, and very startlingly, the farthest Tommy has ever gone with a boy, which is—a lot, for Tommy. Like, of course he _likes_ Jon, of course he _wants_ to be doing something like this, but Tommy likes to premeditate. He’s a planner. Going with the flow is about as opposite to his frame of mind as possible. He doesn’t know the first thing about giving another dude a hand-job: sure, he’s jerked himself off so many times it’s like second nature, but things are different when it’s not _his_ dick. He doesn’t even know what Jon likes. Tommy starts thinking about it, starts questioning what Jon would even _want_ from him—but then Jon bites at his bottom lip, teasing it between his teeth, and Tommy is brought back into the moment. It's a moment that feels both deliriously good as well as mind-numbing, which Tommy appreciates.

 

“Tommy,” Jon moans, his voice low and heady and colored with lust. “ _Fuck_ , that feels good.”

 

Tommy easily backs Jon up against a tree, cupping Jon over his underwear. Jon grabs at Tommy’s back, fingers scraping down the skin there like small rakes marking their territory. He lets out a low groan and Jon takes that as a green light to continue running his hands up beneath Tommy’s pinnie, clawing between his shoulder-blades and down his spine. 

 

Jon is good at kissing—he should be, considering Tommy had watched him and Pamela stick their tongues down each other’s throats for most of junior year—but he sounds surprised when Tommy pushes back against him. It's almost like he’s not used to making out someone who could deadlift him. And Tommy definitely can, considering that he reached a new personal record over the summer. The thought of lifting Jon off his feet sends a shudder down Tommy’s spine, inexplicably. 

 

Tommy wonders when he got so caveman.

 

Jon is attempting to tug Tommy’s pinnie up and over his head. “Come on,” he huffs, and Tommy can feel his breath against his cheek. The shirt is sweaty and sticky and drags against Tommy’s skin harshly, who helps when Jon’s finger drags across his nipple. “Sorry,” Jon says, completely unapologetic. In spite of these machinations, the pinnie gets stuck around Tommy’s head, which gives him a moment to break away from Jon and tug it up and over.

 

“Hey,” Tommy says breathlessly, his hands clenched in his own sweat-soaked shirt. “Not that this isn’t, like, a wet dream come to life,” he says, gesturing at a rather debauched Jon in front of him, “but, dude. The woods? Can’t we just sexile Lovett or something?”

 

“What’s wrong with the woods?” Jon asks breathlessly, reaching for Tommy, who does not go along with his request. He even drops to one knee and looks up at Tommy eagerly, which makes Tommy’s stomach drop to his feet. “What’s wrong with this?” When Tommy looks at Jon, his eyes are wide and dark, the pupils dilated a deep, inky black. He looks a little out of his mind.

 

Tommy’s id is screaming _let the poor boy suck your dick_. But Tommy’s never been an id kind of guy.

 

It’s not about the woods, Tommy realizes quickly, brain kicking into overdrive. It’s about hiding. It’s about how this is a place where Jon can tell Tommy his secret and no one else will overhear them. It’s about keeping this secret from Lovett, because if you tell a real queer person that makes it real, right? And if that’s the case, then what the fuck is Tommy? The woods are quiet and distant and getting cold, now that the sun has set. If Jon blows Tommy here, practically off campus and away from their real lives, did it really happen at all?

 

Tommy knows the answer to that question and it’s not on the list of things that make him feel like a human being. Not by a long fucking shot.

 

“Nothing,” Tommy lies, stepping backwards, away from Jon, who is now fully on his knees in the dirt. “It’s cool.” He pulls his sweat soaked pinnie back on again as Jon frowns at him. “Now, be real: better or worse than Dan?”

 

“Asshole,” Jon says, flipping him off again. He stands up quickly, looking away from Tommy like he’s embarrassed. “Better. Dan didn’t even get close to my dick.” His tone is weirdly harsh and sarcastic, and Tommy takes a step back reflexively.

 

“Good, because I’m extremely competitive,” Tommy says as glibly as he can muster, sliding back into best friend mode.

 

“That I knew,” Jon sighs. He reaches out, but instead of pulling in Tommy for another kiss, he squeezes his arm awkwardly. Tommy is left with pursed lips and half-shuttered eyes for a split second before he shrugs it off. “I need food and a fucking _smoke_.”

 

Tommy wipes his mouth. “Yeah, I could eat.” Tommy doesn’t smoke and Jon knows it. If he wanted Tommy to leave him alone, he could just fucking say it.

 

Jon starts walking ahead towards the lacrosse field, and Tommy slowly makes his way behind him, trailing his steps like a shadow. Tommy doesn’t know what to feel, except maybe a little heavier, carrying a secret back into campus that he didn’t shoulder before. He feels open and vulnerable and still vaguely turned on. He reaches up to touch his lips and finds that they are swollen and tender beneath his fingertips. Tommy doesn't want to know what his face looks like right now.

 

Jon looks over his shoulder at Tommy as they coast along the edge of the lacrosse field towards the mess hall. “Don’t tell Lovett about Dan, okay?” he asks, and then frowns. “Don’t tell him about any of this.” _Or anyone else_ are the words that hang unsaid between them.

 

Tommy frowns. “But—”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Jon says tightly. A lie, but one that Jon has obviously practiced in the mirror over and over again so that it sounds true to his ears. “I’ll tell him myself,” he adds, and the tension in Tommy’s stomach loosens slightly.

 

He won’t tell anyone. It's not his place, and he's certainly not going to out anyone. After all, Tommy abides by a deeply embedded honor code: do unto others as you would have them to do you. Somehow, though, this walk back to campus feels wrong all over. Tommy wonders how badly he fucked this up.

 

Jon lets out a low sigh after Tommy nods at him. “I swear, if Lovett really does make buttons, I’m never going to live it down.”


End file.
